


a little middle-of-the-road

by JBS_Forever



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: And More Angst, Angst, Hurt Peter, Hurt Tony, Peter and Tony get taken hostage, Why do I do this, basically everyone gets hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 05:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13264986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JBS_Forever/pseuds/JBS_Forever
Summary: Tony doesn't know how it happens. All he knows is he's been taken hostage again – and this time he's not alone. This time Peter is here too.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so I'm doing the MCU marathon thing leading up to Infinity War and while watching the first Iron Man, this idea came to me. I guess it's basically Iron Man but if Peter were there. I don't know. another one of those "we'll see how long it lasts" kind of things because I make horrible choices in life.

"wrong or right,

no one seems to bother asking if we might

need a little middle-of-the-road. 

how could you know?"

-Drew Gasparini, "Where I'm At" 

 

 

 

i.

 

 

He doesn't know how it happens. There are flashes of things that don't make sense, seconds separated by hazy, dreamy chunks of time, and then he's blinking up at a ceiling made of rocks and the world is clearing around him.

 

He shouldn't be here. That's what he knows before he knows anything else. The place looks too much like where he was first held captive in Afghanistan, down to the walls and the cots and the iron door. His wrists are bare. No bracelet, no watch. He checks his pockets and finds them empty. For a brief moment, he's the same, naive Tony Stark from all those years ago. The one who sold weapons and couldn't see them being used on the very people he promised to protect.

 

And then his instincts kick in. He is _not_ that guy anymore, and he has come too far in life to be stuck in the same kind of situation again.

 

 _Check your surroundings_. The first step to getting out of here is not only figuring out where _here_ is, but figuring out who took him and why. Look for cracks to break down, for hidden passageways, for – _shit_.

 

“Kid?”

 

His heart plummets. At the edge of the room, Peter is a tangled mess of blue and red limbs, the spider suit on, the mask not. When Tony reaches him, he sees the bruises painted over his face like an eerie mosaic glowing in the dark. A different platform and it might even be poetic. But it is not. It is danger. It is a new criteria, an unplanned factor. He is not alone.

 

Tony shakes him gently. No response. He brings two bloody, trembling fingers to the kid's neck and feels life pumping away under his skin.

 

“He will wake soon.”

 

He swivels around at the voice. Foggy senses, dampened by whatever was used to knock him unconscious – it has to be how he missed the other person in this cell with them.

 

“They sedated him,” the man continues in an accent Tony can't place. He's sitting behind a workbench with nothing on it. “Chloroform, I believe. They gave him an extra amount because he was fighting them. Quite well, I must add.”

 

“Yeah, he does that.” Tony eyes the dirty man cautiously. “Where are we exactly?”

 

“I'm not sure. I haven't been sure of where I am for a long time.”

 

“How long is 'a long time'?”

 

The man smiles. He stands from the chair he's sitting on. Tony stands too. “I'm called Benji.”

 

“Tony.” They shake hands. Hostages, victims. No one shares more in common than two people taken against their will.

 

“Tony Stark. I know all about you. You are the Iron Man. And him –” Benji's gaze falls on Peter. “He is the Spider-Man.”

 

“Uh huh,” Tony says. “So much for secret identities.”

 

“Nothing stays secret here long.”

 

 _Long_. How long? Tony's mind is reeling with every possible situation, every possible means of escape. “Do you know what they want? Money? Fame? For us to remember their name?”

 

“I do not think they want to live forever.”

 

“Then what _do_ they want?”

 

“I suppose what we all want,” says Benji. “Answers.”

 

There are at least a dozen answers Tony would like right now, but before he has a chance to ask the questions that proceed them, Peter comes to reality with a sharp intake of air. A groan follows. The mattress squeaks with movement. Tony sits on the edge of the ratty bed and feels the metal frame sink under his weight.

 

“Kid?”

 

“Mr. Stark?” Peter's pupils are wide, tracking and regarding every inch of space around them. “What … what's going on? Where are we?”

 

“Don't know,” Tony says. “Odds are looking good at us being taken by someone who wants revenge against me. You'd think they'd get tired of that game at some point.”

 

“Who is _they_?”

 

Tony looks at Benji. 

 

“I don't know.”

 

Peter glances at him and back to Tony. He's pale, a stricken expression on his features. His voice is calm. “What do we do?”

 

Tony takes a deep breath, blows out his nerves, sucks in reason and logic. Assess. Strategize. Figure out what these people want.

 

It's not what do they do.

 

It's what _can_ they do?

 

 

* * *

 

 

No one comes to debrief them for a long time. Minutes, hours. Tony isn't sure. Without his watch, without any clocks at all, time is an imaginary construct. There is no natural light in here. It is all candles and lanterns and small desk lamps. Tony follows extension cords until they dip under the main entrance and disappear out of sight. Peter climbs the roof, feels along the edges of boulders and chips away at holes to see if they can become bigger. They can't.

 

“We're stuck?”

 

“For now,” Tony says.

 

Benji watches them. Tony can tell he's been through all this before. Has searched for an alternate exit and come up short. How long has he been here? He won't say. Either he doesn't know anymore, or he doesn't want to scare them. Neither option is comforting.

 

Peter's adrenaline spikes. Fear based and panic charged, he rambles off options, searches through what little tools they have inside, bounces on his feet for the couple minutes he dares to stand still. He doesn't seem scared, but Tony knows it's only so long before he will be. It's only so long before the people come and demand something from them. Something Tony knows won't be good.

 

“So we give it to them,” Peter says. “Or we lie and say we will.”

 

“Lies can only last so long,” Benji says.

 

“How long did it take before they realized you were building the suit?” Peter asks Tony. “Back when … you know.”

 

“Three months.”

 

Peter's hands stop moving. “That's ... uh, see, that's a lot of time for us ... to figure something out.”

 

But the problem is, Tony doesn't know what they want. If they want him to build something, there's no way they'd give him enough free range to be able to make a suit without being noticed. Not unless they don't know how the first Iron Man was made. There are other things, though. Explosives and artillery and distractions. He could, in theory, make enough time for a small interference. But how much?

 

“They're coming,” Benji says. He's right. A heavy footfall is approaching the door, voices calling things in a language Tony only faintly recognizes. They all stand. As the solid door shoves open, Tony steps in front of Peter.

 

A dozen guns greet them. Behind the weapons, words are shouted, screamed. Benji whispers, “Palms up,” and Tony assumes the position of surrender. A man steps forward and speaks in a jumble of sounds.

 

“What is he saying?” 

 

“Something about Ultron and someone named Thanos,” Benji says. Tony notices he has not raised his own arms.

 

“Thanos?”

 

“Stones,” Benji says. “A group of them. He wants to know where they are.”

 

“Why the hell would I know anything about stones?”

 

“The infinity stones,” Peter murmurs.

 

Tony spares him a glance. “How do you know about those?”

 

The man waves his rifle, the motion clear across all bridges of communication. He approaches slowly, circling Tony and coming to a predatory stop by Peter. Benji doesn't need to translate his next words. They come in English.

 

“There is a war, Mr. Tony Stark. You have started it and you will end it.”

 

“What exactly do you want me to do?” Tony asks. “Put up a sign that says 'no aliens allowed'? You're barking up the wrong tree here. Try Thor. You know, the Avenger from space? The one who knows the most about this?”

 

The man's lips pull up into a wry smirk. He says something in his own tongue, something that doesn't have a chance to be made into words Tony can understand, and then he slams the butt of his gun into Peter's face and aims the barrel at Tony when he tries to move forward.

 

Peter goes down in a heap.

 

“You will give me answers,” the man says. “One way or another. They all do.”

 

Flames flicker as legs shuffle past, the group filing out, the door slamming closed. A series of clanks follow as locks are slid into place. One, then another, then another. Benji kneels beside Peter. Tony does the same.

 

“You all right, kid?”

 

Peter's cheek is already darkening into a purple shadow. He nods wordlessly. Tony grips his shoulder.

 

Now he knows. This isn't about him. This is about so, so much more. This is about the universe. About the stars, about the gems, about everything that glimmers and promises hope. It is the fire growing beneath them, around them, inching closer and closer every day. 

 

The world is beginning to burn.

 

And what can he do?

 

What can any of them do?

 

 

* * *

 

 ii.

 

 

 

It's the lack of noise that bothers Peter the most. In the middle of the night, when Tony is asleep, all he can hear is the nothingness. It fills his insides, spreads through his bones. Silence. Pain. Emptiness. “We'll be back home before you know it,” Tony says.

 

Sleep comes in waves. He drifts in and out, wakes when his body remembers he is somewhere he is not supposed to be. His ears ring. His breath sounds like a roar in his head. When he opens his eyes to the orange glow of a small ball of light, fear swallows him.

 

“Am I deaf?”

 

Tony snaps his fingers. Peter hears it.

 

“We're underground,” Benji tells him. “That's why you can't make out much.”

 

It should be comforting, but it's not. Underground means under civilization. Are they buried? Surrounded? If he attempts to dig his way through rock, will he even stand a chance?

 

“How far down are we?”

 

“I'm not sure,” Benji says.

 

They bring food and water. Small amounts, separated into two piles. Peter chugs from the metal cup, nibbles at the stale bread. He feels wrong. Light, airy, like he's caught in a dream.

 

“What about the stones?” he asks Tony. “Do you know where they are?”

 

“One of them,” says Tony. “It's in Vision. I think Thor really does know where the rest of them are. Or at least a couple.”

 

“What happens if Thanos gets them?”

 

It's Benji who answers. “The end of everything.”

 

He knows this, of course, but he forgets. Holding onto thoughts here is like gripping fog. It falls through his fingers, slips from his grasp. He knows something isn't right. All his normal responses are working – his face has healed significantly, his sight has adjusted to his dim surroundings, he can smell dust and gunpowder so strong it almost chokes him if he isn't careful. But his energy is draining. His body is fatigued. He feels like he did when they shoved the cloth over his mouth and made him breathe in the chemical scent.

 

He should tell Tony, but he doesn't.

 

“You want this, kid?” Tony extends his cup to him. Peter takes it carefully.

 

It all he needs as proof that Tony already knows.

 

 

 

 

They come for him. They peel open the door, charge in with guns raised. The leader, a man Peter has started calling The Terminator, speaks in his confusing discourse. He makes vague motions in his direction, and Benji only confirms his fears.

 

“He wants Peter.”

 

“Tell him absolutely not,” Tony says.

 

“It is not a question,” Benji says, but Tony tries to stop them anyway. Their hands grab Peter, rip and yank him toward the door as he struggles against them. He freezes only when he feels the muzzle of a gun press to his temple.

 

“Wait,” Tony says quickly. “Wait. Take me instead. I'm … taller than the kid is. More fun all around. You get extra to mess with.”

 

The Terminator taps a finger against his lips as if he is actually considering. Peter is close enough he can hear his heartbeat. Calm. Measured. He takes one look at Peter's fading bruises and smiles the smile of a devil.

 

“No.”

 

Tony yells as they pull Peter away. He's still yelling after the door is closed. It mixes in with a hundred new sounds, people's voices and machines and hammering and clanging and laughing and gunshots. A burlap sack is pulled over his head. Someone swears in English, then in French. In the distance, a rifle fires repeatedly. It all swells and swells until it morphs into one endless clamor. The hands shove him, drag him in different directions. Commotion. Pandemonium. Chaos. Everything grows louder and louder and louder and louder until it seems to explode.

 

Benji's words echo in his brain. “The end of everything.”

 

 

Then he hears nothing at all.

 


	2. Chapter 2

i.

 

 

It's the sensation of liquid. In his nose, his throat, his eyes. He swallows it, chokes on it. The grip on his hair pulls him to where the air is and pushes him back down again. They are relentless. “Iz the little zpider afraid of water?” they ask in their strange accents. He doesn't answer. He just drowns, over and over again.

 

One. Two. Three. The seconds get longer each time before he is jerked up again. When he's sure he's going to die, when he's sure it's finally the end, they bring him back. The Terminator grips his chin as he pants. Cracked lips form words he can't hear.

 

“I don't ... I ...” He blinks drops of liquid from his eyelashes and shakes his head. He sees The Terminator's mouth mold around another word:  _Wrong_.

 

Wrong. He's shoved down into the trough again, held tight. Somewhere beneath him, his fingers find purchase on the wooden surface he's bent over and dig in. Pressure builds in his chest, his temples, his vision bursting with color, the world threatening to tear in half. Red. Yellow. Orange. It is nothing. Empty. Void. The only sound his own heart rushing through his skull.

 

 _Don't breathe_ , he tells himself.  _Don't breathe. Don't breathe._

 

And then he  _is_  breathing – not water, but sulfur and charcoal and saltpeter. The scents above the surface. At the same time, strong cologne overwhelms him, suffocates him. He's deaf, and then he's not.

 

“You will learn,” The Terminator says. “You will tell Mr. Tony Stark that he will learn too.”

 

_Don't breathe. Don't breathe._

 

He's under again.

 

 

 

* * *

 

ii.

 

 

 

Tony paces along the floor, from corner to corner of their makeshift cell, past cinder blocks and wooden support beams and empty beds covered in thin blankets. Frustration makes his hands shake. Benji sits behind the workbench and follows his movements.

 

“How old is he?” 

 

“What?”

 

“Peter. How old is he?”

 

Tony presses an ear against the door. “He's fifteen.” No noise from outside. He waits, counts for a minute, and listens again.

 

 _Fifteen_.

 

He pushes away and leans back against the wall. “You gotta level with me here. Is there anything you know? Anything at all?”

 

“I know they will not stop,” Benji says.

 

“What the hell do they want me to do? I'm not a magician. It's not like I can make the stones appear here even if I knew where they were.”

 

The stupid stones. Six of them: Space, Reality, Power, Mind, Soul, Time. Before creation itself, they were the six singularities. And then the universe exploded into existence, the world began its first turn, and the stones were all that remained of what used to be.

 

Infinite power. In the hands of Thanos, how many would die?

 

Millions?

 

Billions?

 

“I'm trying to stop it,” Tony says. “I don't want this to happen any more than they do.”

 

“I know.”

 

"So why me? Why are they putting this all on me?"

 

"I suppose you were the easiest to get to. You are very public with your locations. And Earth is easier to navigate than the galaxy."

 

He pinches the space between his eyes. “Fine. Fair. Whatever. What else can you tell me? Names? Ethnicity? What language are they speaking?”

 

“Mr. Stark, I have a few too many languages in my knowledge and have been here far too long to tell the difference between them anymore.”

 

That makes him drop his hand. If Benji has been held captive as long as Tony suspects he has, it's because they want something from him. It's because he knows something. He wouldn't still be alive if he didn't. But what is it, exactly, that he's hiding from them?

 

Several laughs pass by the door. To Tony's right, a bulb flickers in one of the lamps. He approaches it slowly, taps on the glass until it settles. A dozen thoughts race through his mind.

 

“ _You're a mechanic, right?”_

 

“ _Right.”_

 

“ _Why don't you just build something?”_

 

Harley the know-it-all. A miniature version of Peter if he's ever seen one. But the kid still seems to channel him when he needs a hard reminder sometimes.

 

He lifts the lamp. “What do you say we get creative, Mr. Benji?”

 

Benji lifts an eyebrow.

 

 

 

 

Wires. Charges. Electricity. They are no more than fifteen minutes into dissecting the bodies of the lights when metal creaks in warning. They fold everything quickly back into place to make it look normal. Clanks follow, clasps being crudely undone, and then the entryway is opening and Peter is shoved through.

 

No one comes in with him. Weapons aim their way but only for a second while the door closes again. When they are gone, it's only Peter left. Peter, on his knees, palms spread on the ground, gasping and coughing. Moisture drips from his hair down his cheeks. He is soaked, shivering.

 

“Shit.” Tony is beside him as soon as he hits the floor. He touches his back, leaves his hand there when he feels it shaking. “Kid?”

 

Peter's lips move, but nothing escapes. He raises his index finger as a silent request, and for the small moment his arm is up, the other gives out under his weight. Tony catches him across the chest. 

 

"Take a breath."

 

His sleeve grows wet. _Water_. He doesn't have to ask what happened. He's been through it before.

 

Anger pulses in his veins, his heart practically humming in response. Benji drops a couple blankets next to them and wraps one around Peter. This is everything. The planets. The stars. The moons. The galaxies. Total destruction. Annihilation.  _Life_.

 

Peter shudders.

  

"I'm so sorry, kid," Tony says. 

 

How many will die?

 

Millions?

 

Billions? 

 

"I'm so sorry."

 

 He always is.

 

 

 

* * *

 

iii.

 

 

 

The colors along the edge of his sight begin to diffuse. Peter dozes, exhausted, light-headed. He dreams of falling in rivers and lakes, of waves of white surrounding him like clouds, trapping him, blinding him as the parachute from his suit malfunctions. His stomach turns. He wakes and he can't hear. Tony calms him, mimes for him to give it a minute, to tilt his head to get the water out. Benji finds a flashlight and looks in his ears.

 

“I used to be a paramedic,” he says to a question Peter doesn't know was asked.

 

Tony snaps different objects beside him. “Can you hear this?” he asks, and, "What about this? Can you hear this one?"

 

Peter nods. Tony nods too.

 

“Yeah, you're okay.”

 

The tension is palpable, mixed with hesitant relief. Tony gives him a cup to drink from and sits across from him. “What did they want?”

 

“I don't know.”

 

“They didn't say anything?”

 

“They said ...” What did they say? Soundless expressions, foreign words. Already he is too detached from his memories to make sense of them. “He said I'll learn. He said to tell you that you'll learn too.”

 

“Learn what?”

 

He shrugs. His gaze falls on the workbench, on the strange shapes of the lamps. “What's that?”

 

Tony's stare stays locked on him a beat longer as if he is determining whether it is okay or not to change the subject. 

 

“That?” He looks back at it. “That, my dear Spider-Ling, is what I hope will be a distraction. It needs some tweaking. Work in progress. Version one. You know how it is.”

 

“Can I help?”

 

“ _Can_  you?”

 

Peter smiles tiredly. Helping is something he has always been able to do. He shrugs off most of his blankets and follows Tony and Benji on wobbly legs.

 

“Take a seat. Take a lamp.”

 

Peter does. “Currents?”

 

“Currents.”

 

"Um. Don't we need, uh, like a conductor or something?"

 

"Yup. Knew that aunt of yours sent you to a genius school for a reason."

 

Beside him, Benji breathes out a soft laugh and says, “The genius Peter Parker.”

 

Tony's entire demeanor changes. Peter just laughs too. He's wary, on edge, in need of an interruption that looks familiar to something he's used to. He's broken apart and put back together enough things to get the hang of it. So he lets his hands move for him. Lets his mind wander in the shadowy places where sound has yet to get all the way through to remind him this isn't right. That he's not at home. That he's not safe. 

 

But if he were a little more coherent right now, he'd probably understand the reason Tony has gone rigid.

 

It's because he's just realized that not only have neither of them told Benji what Peter's last name is, they never told him Peter's _first_ name either. And somehow he knows both.

 

_Don't breathe, don't breathe._

 

 _You will learn_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well holy cow! The response to this has been amazing. I'm so glad you guys like it! 
> 
> I'm meeting Tom Holland this coming weekend (!!! and Chris Evans and Sebastian Stan!! #killme), so I wanted to update this now before I leave. I might try to update one more time before Thursday, but if not, I'll see you on the other side!! If I disappear for a while, it's probably because I've died from being so close to Chris. or Sebastian. or everyone. yeah, I'm gonna die. It was nice knowing you!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off, thanks for all the support on this!! it really means so much!
> 
> second, i am having some mad anxiety from waiting to meet Chris and Tom and everyone, so i've been trying to channel it into productivity. that means you get another update. i leave tonight for the con, so i'll see you guys in the afterlife.

 

 

i.

 

 

The kid blinks quickly in succession, eyes drooping closed and snapping back open again. Tony watches him, watches Benji more carefully. He loops copper around his thumb. His pulse beats too fast.

 

If history has taught him anything, it's that Peter panics mostly when other people are panicked. Generally it's all misplaced excitement with him, bubbling energy making him talk too fast and shoot off one-liners as he stops petty thieves from stealing purses and people's bikes. But Tony has seen him split a ferry in half and move in sheer terror. He has watched him tear up under berating. If Tony leads on now how nervous Benji is making him, it will set the kid on edge too.

 

So he waits. They work without talking. They test different objects. They are lucky they found tools buried away in drawers, but supplies are low. Seven lamps, at most. A burnt out bulb. Conductors made from scraps and circuits tested. One mistake and they are out another object.

 

Peter clears his throat. “I, uh … I'm gonna lay down for a second.”

 

“You all right?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Just – uh, just tired.”

 

With most of the lights now in their possession, it is hard to determine if that is the reason behind the pallor of Peter's skin or if it from something else.

 

Tony lets him go. He listens to the cot creak as Peter plops down on it. Stops working long enough to hear Peter's breathing even out in sleep. Then he turns to Benji and lowers his voice.

 

“Okay, who the hell are you?” he asks. “And don't give me this 'General Hospital' amnesia bull. Unless you've got an evil twin brother somewhere who is sleeping with your step-sister, I don't want to hear it.”

 

Benji frowns. “I'm afraid I don't understand that reference.”

 

“Then let me spell it out, Lost Girl. How do you know who the kid is?”

 

“Do you mean how do I know he is Spider-Man?”

 

“I mean how do you know his name.”

 

“I know his name because _they_ know his name,” says Benji. He sets his lamp down, lifts his hands in the same act of surrender he didn't do when guns were locked on him. “I understand you have no reason to trust me, but I am an ally. I am on your side. I want to help you escape from here.”

 

“And what about you? You don't want to escape?”

 

“I think I have been long forgotten, Mr. Stark. I'm not sure I have anything left to go back to. But you, and him … you have lives. And he is so young.”

 

“Yeah, I know.” Tony exhales through his nose. A hundred questions with no good answers. In some part of his brain, he's aware he has no choice but to trust Benji. If he wants to get out of here alive. If he wants to get Peter out of here alive too.

 

“You have something they want, don't you?” he says. “That's why you're here?”

 

“I must, though I am not sure what. They have never told me why they're holding me. They have only said something big is coming.”

 

“Something like Thanos?”

 

“Or something like you.”

 

Boots come stomping up toward the door, latches come undone. Benji collects their work and hides it accordingly, and Tony doesn't get a chance to ask what _something like you_ means before he has to hurry over to Peter.

 

“Kid, wake up.”

 

There's no movement. Tony jostles him gently. “Peter.”

 

“Huh?” Bleary, unfocused eyes open. Peter coughs and squints at him. “Wha –”

 

“They're back. You gotta get up. Now.”

 

The last lock is undone. Peter scrambles to his feet and holds his palms up, mirroring Tony. The foreign voices shout.

 

“What are they saying?”

 

Benji seems frazzled. “I don't know. I – they are –”

 

Five men surround them. Two of them grab Peter, one of them grabs Tony.

 

Benji says, “Don't fight. It will only make it worse.”

 

“Make _what_ worse?”

 

The barrel of a gun presses into his side. It is a warning, a command. _Move_ , it says, and then the grip on his arm tightens and does it for him. Something is slid over his face to block his vision. He tracks every footstep instead. Fifteen paces, a right turn. Fourteen stairs. Twenty paces, left turn. Twenty-five down a long hall. The sound of the men's words here don't echo. They are enclosed by walls. Another turn and everything opens up.

 

They stop walking. The object covering his head is pulled free and a hand on his shoulder pushes down with enough pressure he's forced to his knees. To his left, Peter is manhandled into the same position.

 

“Mr. Tony Stark,” a voice says in English. The Terminator.

 

“So formal,” Tony says. “You can call me Mr. Iron Man.”

 

The Terminator's mouth twitches with grim pleasure. He kneels in front of Tony and takes hold of his wrist. Calmly, as though he is doing something he has done many times before, he folds his palm over the underside of Tony's fingers and starts to bend them back toward his arm.

 

Tony grinds his teeth together.

 

“When you are not made of Iron,” The Terminator says, pushing harder, “it is interesting how easily you can break.” He releases his grip before bones can splinter.

 

Tony doesn't say anything. The floor groans. An unfamiliar word is spoken. There is silence a moment, then the tip of a pointed shoe collides into his stomach. Fire. Pain. The blows come in sequence, one after another after another. He sees Pepper – her smile, her blue eyes, the fine lines around her lips. The gates of the sky peeling open. Green grass and summer nights and missed calls.

 

In between hits, Peter yells his name, begs for it to stop.  _Please_ , he says. _Please. Please._ As if everything up until this moment was tolerable, but not this.

 

_Please._

 

“Now there,” The Terminator says. “Mr. Tony Stark.”

 

Everything settles. Tony's torso throbs. He takes a breath, spares a glance at Peter to find his hands have been twisted behind him and are being held there by one of the men as he attempts to find against them, squirming but not moving far. They meet eyes. 

 

“I told you that you will learn,” The Terminator says.

 

“Learn what?” Tony asks angrily. “What the hell do you want from me? Don't you think if I knew where the stones were, someone a little higher up on the food chain would have found me already?”

 

“I think you know more than you let on.”

 

“You think I want this to happen? I became Iron Man to _save_ the world, not destroy it.”

 

“And yet look what you have done.”

 

“Still a lot more good than you, Schwarzenegger. At least I don't kidnap people to do my dirty work for me. You want the stones, find them yourself.”

 

Tony is expecting another punch, another hit to his already injured areas. But it doesn't come to him. It comes to Peter. It comes as the long handle of a rifle striking him across the face so hard he falls with it. The man hits him again, square in the nose. Blood gushes freely.

 

"Stop," Tony says. "Just stop." 

 

"That's enough."

 

 _You will learn._  

 

Potential. Promise. Some unexpected revelation occurs to him, then, that there are only two reasons someone would go through this much trouble to find the stones: to save themselves, or to use them before Thanos can.

 

Infinite power.

 

He sits back on his heels. “Are you human?” he asks, because he himself doesn't even know how great Thanos is. A forceful being. A danger. Only once has he heard the name uttered by Thor but never with much context. The most important thing he was told is that something out there is coming. He doesn't know when. He doesn't know where. But something is coming.

 

The Terminator grips Peter under his arms and brings him to his feet. “Take the spider back to the water and chain him up in the other cell after you are done.”

 

The ground shifts beneath Tony. Peter attempts to yank free of his entrapment with a panicked yell. More men grab him. Tony stands quickly, his insides clenching in pain, and raises his hands when the rifles take aim at him.

 

“Don't,” he says. “I need him.”

 

“You need him for what?”

 

“To help me figure out where the stones are.”

 

The Terminator makes a motion to his men, who pause in response. Tony's chest heaves. Somewhere, a clock ticks. Birds chirp. They are above ground here. Above ground?

 

“He is a child.”

 

“That _child_ is a genius. If you want my help, I need him.”

 

He averts his gaze while The Terminator contemplates. Windows. He sees windows. He sees sunlight. _Above ground._

 

“Very well.” Another signal is given. Peter is released and shoved straight into him, and Tony catches him with an arm across his shoulders, gripping him tight. Relief keeps him from letting go.

 

“I will not wait much longer, Mr. Tony Stark,” The Terminator says. “You will do best to adhere to my warning.”

 

A double-edged sword. Tony only has so long to get them out of here.

 

It's time to start making a new plan.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

ii.

 

 

The bed is spotted with blood. On the pillow, on the blanket, even on the flimsy metal frame holding it all together. White washcloths turn pink. The scales of cruelty tip. Peter's nose is broken, protruding at odd angles.

 

“We should – we should set it. Before it starts to heal.”

 

“It'll hurt like a bitch, kid,” Tony says.

 

“We're just gonna have to break it again later to fix it. Might as well.”

 

It is not the worst pain Peter has ever felt, but it is the most concentrated. Sharp and all in one place. His eyes stream. His face pulls tight. Blood pours and pours.

 

“You should let me check your ribs,” Benji says to Tony.

 

“I'm fine.”

 

Whether he is really fine or not, Peter does not know. He sees him lift up his shirt to check the skin which has molted and ballooned in the vague shape of shoe prints. Peter figures something is fractured. That many hits with that much force? He'll be lucky if nothing is cracked.

 

They calm during the aftermath. In the time between when they arrive and decide to start working again, two men with pistols bring them ice packs as a strange offering of peace. Peter drinks the water and eats the bread they give him. His stomach cramps from hunger. The tender area beneath his eyes begins to swell.

 

“Just go lay down, kid.”

 

“But –”

 

“You can help once you don't look like a raccoon.”

 

Since there's nothing else for him to do, he tries to rest. Already a fog has settled over his brain, painting everything in hues of white and orange. The parachute. The flames. When he blinks, he swears Benji disappears and reappears again.

 

Peter hears him say, in a soft tone, “They are making him sick.”

 

Tony's voice is just as quiet. “What?”

 

“The water. They are dosing him.”

 

“Why would they do that?”

 

“He scares them.”

 

“He's a kid.”

 

“He is a kid who took down five of their men while only being half-conscious. Have you not noticed he is not at full strength? He hasn't been since he arrived here. It is why they are torturing him. It is a defense.”

 

Peter doesn't know if he dreams the conversation, but the next time he's awake, Tony shares his own water with him. It doesn't seem to make a difference. Whatever they have been using to dumb him down makes his body confused. His bruised skin heals within a few hours, but his nose still leaks trails of red down his lips. A fever sets, breaks, and sets again. His head aches.

 

“What did they give him?” Tony asks.

 

“I'm not sure.”

 

Anxiety washes in waves. He has had only two panic attacks in his life, both brought on by extremely different circumstances and at different ages, the last one mere months ago, but this is not the same. This is the feeling of being locked inside himself. Helpless and hopeless. It comes on strong, all at once, his eyes blurring shapes, his ears muting everything.

 

Tony shines a light into his pupils. He cracks and breaks objects that make no sound. Peter finds himself silently chanting the same prayer he did when he was sure they were going to kill Tony. _Please. Please._ They have deafened him, blinded him, ruined him. _Please._

 

Benji lays a damp cloth over the top half of his face, pushing it gently against his eyelids. Nothing makes it better, but nothing makes it worse, so they decide to wait. Peter lets the shadows pull him to the place he's been trying to pretend doesn't exist. The place that tells him this isn't right. He's not at home. He isn't safe. He needs to leave.

 

This won't last. It can't last. Tony made sure he knew that. _Let it get out of your system_ , his mouth said, over and over until Peter could make it out. Let the drugs run their course. Let the anxiety ease. His senses will come back.

 

“They  _will_ come back,” he whispers. "Right?"

 

But he can't hear the answer.

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

i.

 

 

He wakes up in Queens. Familiar bed, familiar walls, familiar room. In the kitchen, May is singing along to some song on the radio, burning eggs or toast or pancakes, and Peter can't hear it so much as he can _feel_ it. The floor vibrating, the noise traveling through. For a long time he doesn't like May, but only while he's young and doesn't understand. He wants his mom, not his aunt, and so he hates her before he learns to love her. And when he grows and she's still there, he learns to appreciate her too.

 

He wakes up in New Jersey. A giant field, the smell of grass, the sun beating down bright and strong. Ben folds his fingers around the handle of a kite. _Run backwards_ , he says as the wind shifts his hair across his forehead, but Peter can't hear it, he just remembers what Ben's voice sounded like. He remembers the way the birds chirped and the bees buzzed and life was a multicolored nylon triangle soaring above him, held fast by only a string.

 

He wakes up in a cell. Boulders and cement and flickers of flames. Someone is humming and he can hear it – faintly, like he's on the other side of a door, like it's coming through one side of a headphone. His eyes adjust to the dimness and settle on the figure bent over the workbench. A few feet away, Tony is lying on a cot. Peter must have slept through another visit from the men, because when he looks closely he can see that Tony is bloody in places he wasn't bloody before.

 

“What song is that?”

 

Benji glances at him. “I don't know,” he says. “But you can hear it?”

 

Peter nods and sits across from him. Half his head feels empty, the strange sensation of what little sound there is only coming through one ear.

 

“I wonder if you have ruptured your eardrum.”

 

“How long was I out?”

 

“A long time,” Benji says.

 

Night, day, today, tomorrow. Peter doesn't know when it is, or what _time_ even is anymore. How long have they been here? Weeks? Months? A lifetime?

 

“You should rest.”

 

“I'm okay,” says Peter.

 

“You don't look okay.”

 

How long will he have to wake up until he does?

 

Benji pushes him a lamp. It quivers under his touch. It flashes once, the bulb weakening.

 

“Do you have a family?” Peter whispers, afraid to shatter what's left of their work.

 

“I did, yes.”

 

“Did?”

 

“Back before I was captured.”

 

“You don't think they're looking for you?”

 

“I would hope they aren't.”

 

“Why?”

 

“It's not good to look for the dead.”

 

“But you're not dead.”

 

“Yes, but they don't know that. And after all this time, it is easier to assume I am than to have spent it all trying to find me and coming up short.”

 

“I don't think you ever just stop looking,” Peter says. “I don't think they can move on until they know for sure.”

 

“Would you want them to waste their lives? If you were gone for a year, would you want May to spend all of it looking for you? Or would you want her to move on?”

 

Peter fumbles with a loose wire and rips it free of its casing. “Shit.”

 

“It's okay,” Benji says. “We have more.”

 

“We're running out.”

 

“We'll be fine. Mr. Stark has plans.”

 

“What plans?”

 

“You should sleep, Peter.”

 

Isn't he sleeping already? He scrubs his hands over his face.

 

Burn the toast, sing the song, hold the kite so the wind can't take it from your grasp. Queens, New Jersey, a cell. Listen to see if you still can. Look around to see if you still can. _Think_ to see if you still can. Is Benji losing his accent, speaking in different words? What part of this is your imagination? Drugs and panic and frustration and helplessness making you sick, making everything the wrong shade, the wrong texture. Is anyone still looking?

 

Or are you already dead?

 

He works. He pulls apart lamps and messes with currents until he can't see straight. Feverish and hazy and wrong. Benji hums. Benji touches his forehead and calms him, because somehow, Peter remembers the way Benji's voice sounds even when he can't hear it.

 

He closes his eyes.

 

He wakes up in Queens.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

ii.

 

 

 

Tony used to be a liar. Notoriously and publicly. It was a trademark of his personality – bitter, sarcastic, liar. Not entirely an active choice, he lied mostly out of necessity. And then he made Ultron and he destroyed the Avengers and he destroyed his friendships and he destroyed the part of him that reached toward lying as a defense. He is trying to be more honest, but now he has a fifteen-year-old kid in his watch and they are in serious danger and pretending just seems like the best thing to do. Pretend he has it under control. Pretend they will get out of here just fine.

 

If he pretends hard enough, he can make it come true.

 

He stumbles over to where Peter is sprawled out at the workbench, his head resting on his arm.

 

“Looks like you two had a real exciting conversation.”

 

Benji doesn't smile. “There are people looking for him, yes?”

 

“Everyone who's looking for me.” Tony drops a hand on Peter's shoulder. His palm warms. “Jesus.”

 

“What's wrong?”

 

“He's still got a fever. Can he hear yet?”

 

“A little.” Benji points at his own left ear. One side. Tony can work with that.

 

He shakes Peter. “Hey, kid. You wanna go lay down?”

 

Peter's eyes don't open, but he shifts and mumbles, “Mr. Stark?”

 

“No, this is your conscience.”

 

“Mhmm.”

 

“Does he have clothes on under that?” Benji asks. “That suit can't be comfortable.”

 

“I designed it to be _very_ comfortable, thank you,” Tony says, but he can't deny Benji has a point. Water, torture, pain, sickness. A skintight suit under multiple occasions and long periods of time can't be the most pleasant thing to wear.

 

Peter sits up. “It's fine.” He scans over Tony. “Are you?”

 

“Dandy.”

 

They came while Peter was sleeping. Not the same men who handed out ice packs, but three different ones with semi-automatic weapons. They wanted Peter, because Peter has somehow become their pray, but Tony distracted them with a few unkind sentences and took the fallout. Nothing broken. Nothing serious, he doesn't think. But he's coasting on adrenaline anyway. Adrenaline and false hope.

 

How does he get them out of here?

 

He runs through scenarios. Upstairs, the windows. Get above ground again and maybe he can get them outside. But what else is out there? A desert? A forest? There were birds, which means there are trees. There was sun. He has to get upstairs again.

 

Diversion. Use the diversion.

 

Peter's hearing goes in and out without him noticing. While he's mostly coherent and able to make sense of it, Tony has him memorize the path to the place they were taken earlier.

 

“Say it again.”

 

“Fifteen steps, turn right. Go up fourteen stairs. Twenty steps, turn left. Twenty-five steps down a hallway. Turn right.”

 

“Good. Again.”

 

Peter sleeps more than he's awake. Tony pulls the last lamp apart and finds another conductor. Electricity. A spark. He still doesn't like Benji, but he likes him more when the man drops eight batteries on the table in front of him. Alkaline.

 

“Well shit.”

 

“We didn't think about the flashlights,” Benji says.

 

“No, we didn't.”

 

An explosion. He can make an explosion. A good sized one too. He just needs to short-circuit the batteries and send the currents through them and he can create a bigger distraction than he'd planned before.

 

It's good – until it's not. It's good until Peter throws up and his nose bleeds again and he trembles under the weight of every blanket in their possession. Tony needs to get upstairs one more time to figure out the best way to escape, but he risks Peter getting pulled up with him, and they won't go easy on the kid if they take him again.

 

“I w-wish w-we could turn on t-the heater in t-this thing,” Peter says, his teeth knocking against each other. Benji moves a lantern closer to him and removes the glass covering. Tony has not missed the way Peter has started latching onto Benji like a lifeline. He doesn't know what he missed.

 

“It has a manual override,” Tony says. He pokes at Peter's side until he finds the button underneath the material of the suit and switches it on. Peter relaxes immediately.

 

“Whoa. Thanks.”

 

“Guess that would have been helpful earlier.”

 

“It's okay. It's helpful now.”

 

When Peter is out again, Tony and Benji tape together batteries and copper. The final connections will have to be made right before they use it. Hide it until then so Tony can get more information.

 

“I can try to sneak out,” Benji says. “The next time they come.”

 

“They could kill you.”

 

“They won't.”

 

“How do you know?”

 

“Because they haven't done it yet.”

 

Tony doesn't like this idea. He doesn't entirely trust Benji, but a part of him _does._ A part of him needs Benji here for reasons he can't process. Comradery. A helping hand. Another person with him of reasonably sound mind. Damn it all to hell if Tony doesn't need Benji with him.

 

“I'll find a way.”

 

“Mr. Stark?” Peter murmurs from his cot.

 

“What's up, kid?”

 

“The suit.”

 

“You need the heater off?”

 

Peter doesn't answer. Doesn't hear him. _The suit_ , his lips say. _The suit. The suit._

 

Tony tries to switch the settings on the heater, but Peter doesn't let him.

 

“No,” he says out loud. “Mr. Stark, the suit.”

 

Benji kneels in front of him. “He's still feverish.”

 

“I'm not,” says Peter. He blinks too fast and shakes his head. “The … you said override. Manual. The currents.”

 

“Kid, you're not making sense.”

 

“The tracker.”

 

“What?”

 

“Can you ... can you override it?”

 

And that _does_ make sense. The tracker he installed in the suit. Peter is onto something. They'd turned it off right before they were captured so Tony could run tests, but send enough of a current through it and it will emit a signal without Karen's help.

 

 _The suit_.

 

“Fuck,” Tony says. “Sit up. Take it off.”

 

Peter pushes the locking mechanism on his chest and the suit turns into ripples of fabric. “Guess this would have been helpful earlier.”

 

“It's okay,” Tony says. “It's helpful now.”

 

And then it's not, because there are the footsteps again, the ones he wanted before but doesn't want now, and Peter locks the suit again and stands and Tony and Benji stand too.

 

The door opens. The Terminator steps through with his entourage. “What have we decided, Mr. Tony Stark?”

 

“I need a little more time.”

 

“You have been given enough time.”

 

Tony used to be a liar, so it comes easily in this moment – the excuses, the desperation. “We have to figure out how to transmit a message up to space.”

 

“Why?”

 

 _Why?_ What will make sense? He runs through excuses. “That's where the stones are, genius. Send a message up and we can get the location. But we can't make it traceable or they'll come down on you.”

 

Movement in the corner attracts Tony's attention. Benji is doing it. He's slipping behind men and making his way toward the door and no one has noticed yet.

 

The Terminator utters something to the person beside him.

 

“What's he saying?” Peter asks quietly.

 

There's no translation from Benji because he's already gone, but Tony hears the words as if they are spoken in English. _What do you think?_ That's what The Terminator said. _What do you think?_ It has been long enough now that Tony has processed and sorted and realized he can understand the language they are speaking.

 

When he stops to think about it, he's been able to understand it the whole time.

 

He is, after all, a trademark liar. So good he had even himself fooled.

 

“Mr. Stark?”

 

“He doesn't know if he believes us.”

 

The Terminator cracks his knuckles. If he decides not to believe them, the plan might be ruined. No intel. No suit. No tracking. No distraction. Benji risking his life for nothing, Tony risking Peter's life for nothing.

 

If he decides not to believe them, this might lead to the one thing they are trying to prevent.

 

The end of everything.

 

“Well then,” The Terminator says.

 

Tony holds his breath.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so Chris Evans got sick the day before I was supposed to meet him. which means I didn't meet him. it was actually crushing. the whole con was kind of terrible. but meeting Tom and Seb was cool. I got great pictures. all in all, everything turned out to be kind of meh, but lessons learned, I guess. I will now resume my life and try not to be a baby about it anymore.
> 
> thanks for all the comments and kudos! I absolutely love reading what you guys have to say and it really makes my world that you guys are enjoying this. thank you sooooo muccchhh!!! <3


	5. Chapter 5

 

i.

 

 

It's not enough.

 

It's not enough that Tony has excuses and lies and is trying his best to make everyone happy, because The Terminator agrees to give him more time and then decides to take Peter anyway. They grab Peter and yank a sack over his head and the kid, for all it's worth, still tries to fight them even though Tony is sure a large gust of air could knock him over right now, and The Terminator says, “Consider this collateral” and gets ready to leave.

 

“Wait,” Tony says. “I told you I'd do what you wanted. I need the kid for that.”

 

“And you'll get him back. But first I want to make it clear that this is not a joke.”

 

“Do you see me laughing?”

 

“I see you making a fool of me,” The Terminator says. “And I will not tolerate it. You will learn, Mr. Tony Stark, that your actions have consequences. You are self-centered and egotistical, and now the child will pay for it.”

 

“He didn't do anything.”

 

“No, but  _you_  did.”

 

There's no argument Tony can make. They are taking Peter because they know it will bother him. They are taking Peter because there's nothing they can do to Tony to make him cooperate except hurt the kid.

 

The arms start pulling him away.

 

“Wait,” Tony says again, but guns focus on him and voices shout at him and the men file out, one by one, dragging Peter along, until the last guy left gives Tony a wink and slides the metal exit closed with a resonating bang.

 

Click, click, click.

 

Sealing Tony in, trapping him in this cell. Peter wanted to override the tracker in the suit. Peter kept his mouth closed every time the men came. Peter thought he was doing the right thing.

 

No, but no, it's Tony who is making him pay for it.

 

“God damn it!” He slams a fist against the door.

 

Seconds away. He had been seconds away from doing something that could have saved them both and now the moment is gone and he's locked in this cell without the suit, without the kid, without Benji.

 

For the first time since they got here, he is alone.

 

He clears the workbench in one fluid motion, sending tools clattering to the ground, sending a lantern smashing into the base of a cot. The glass shatters and the flame catches the end of a blanket and ignites it. Tony stomps it out before it can do any damage. He sits on the edge of the mattress and runs his hands over his face.

 

Here is he, again, the same person he was back in Afghanistan. Right at the beginning when he woke up and his chest was hollowed out and they wanted him to build a missile and he told them he wouldn't because he had nothing left to lose.  _Take my life_ , he thought,  _Take my life because I'll never do it again._ Hopeless. Hopeless and hollowed out. All he had was a car battery and opened eyes.

 

“ _So you're a man who has everything … and nothing.”_

 

No, but no, Tony won't make the same mistakes. He'll get them  _all_  out of here this time. No sacrifices needed. He is not hopeless. He is not hollowed out anymore.

 

“ _Don't waste your life, Stark.”_

 

He looks at the broken lantern at his feet. If nothing else, he'll get them out of here.

 

He's got a plan.

 

 

* * *

 

 

ii.

 

 

 

Fingers dig into his cheeks, pry his jaw open, hold his head still. A voice sings, “The itzy bitzy zpider crawled up the water zpout. Down came the rain,” and then water is being poured down his throat, too much, too strong, and he chokes.

 

They want to know his name.

 

“That's all I want,” The Terminator says.

 

“And wazhed the zpider out,” the voice sings. Water, water, water. It comes so fast he can't swallow it. It gurgles in his throat, spills down his neck.  _More_ , someone says. He is powerless to stop them. Already hazy and unclear, now his hands have been pulled around a pillar and cuffed together behind him.

 

Fifteen steps, turn right. Fourteen stairs. Twenty steps, turn left. Twenty-five steps down a hallway. They turned left again, not right. Another thirteen steps.

 

“Your name, child.”

 

The barrel of a gun pressed to his temple and tears and water rolling down the side of his face, onto the smooth metal. They won't kill him. They won't kill him because if they do, Tony won't do what they want. He says that out loud, trembling.

 

“Just tell me your name,” The Terminator says. The hammer pulls back. Peter can hear skin rubbing against the trigger.

 

“Peter,” he says, and the cold metal disappears.

 

The Terminator cups his chin and Peter's tears slide over his rough hands. “Good. That is all I wanted from you, Peter.”

 

Peter blinks to clear his lashes. “I … I don't know anything about the stones.”

 

“I'm aware.”

 

“Then what do you want with me?”

 

“You are strong-willed, Peter the Spider-Man,” The Terminator says. He trails a finger along the edge of Peter's nose. “You are  _strong_  too. Tell me, how is it possible you are not bruised in the places you were yesterday?”

 

“Yesterday?” When was yesterday? Peter doesn't know.

 

The Terminator makes a ring around Peter's eye with his thumb. The swelling is not gone, but there's no way to pretend it hasn't gotten better. Advanced healing. Even in his body's confused state, most of his injuries are doing what they're supposed to.

 

“But not these,” The Terminator says, poking at a tender area. “Why do some heal and others don't?”

 

Peter tries to pull away from him.

 

“You see, Peter, I'm aware you offer no answers about the infinity stones. But you have become a wonderful bargaining tool, and you bring forth a lot of questions my men want answered. Tell me, Peter, how severe of an injury do you need for your body to be unable to heal it? Can it save you if you are drowning?”

 

The singing voice from before speaks into his good ear. “What do you zay we find out?”

 

Peter is in Queens, in his room, listening to his aunt sing along to the radio.  _I'm not tone deaf_ , she'd argued with him once,  _I just don't like commitment._ He'd laughed so hard he cried. Tears streaming down his cheeks, over the fingernails digging into his bones.  _Besides, I'm just trying to make the other notes feel better. It's not their fault they didn't get picked._

 

“Look at me, Peter.”

 

Peter is in Queens and May and Ben are dancing in the living room to memories before his time and they see him watching from the kitchen and pull him in.  _This is called the mashed potato_ , Ben says, and May says,  _No no, the sprinkler, Peter. The sprinkler is what it's all about_. And this is the first time Peter can remember the feeling of having a family, because he was so young when his parents died, too young, and the older he got, the less he remembered how it felt to be around them.

 

It happened so fast he never got the chance to mourn.

 

Happened so fast, just like the water, pouring into his mouth, into his nose, his head pulled back to take it. Blood and water and the mashed potato, no, the sprinkler, no, the mashed potato, and God, Peter never wanted to forget his parents but the older he gets, the more he does.

 

Blood and pain and blood.

 

He is in Queens and he tells Ben he hates him. Two nights before Ben dies and he says it because Ben doesn't know he's Spider-Man but he knows something is up and he wants Peter to talk to him, to tell him why he's sneaking out, why he's disappearing so much. Peter tells him he hates him and then Ben dies and they make up before he does but Peter never gets to tell him he doesn't mean it. He never gets to take it back.

 

“Peter.”

 

Hands cupping his face, warm and nice as the tears spilled down. May told him the mashed potato really was the better dance and Peter laughed so hard he cried. Cried and cried and cried.

 

“Peter, I need you to open your eyes. Come on. Open your eyes.”

 

He is in this prison. Wrists still bound, water droplets falling from his hair. He expects to see The Terminator in front of him, expects the gentle grip to belong to the firm man, but it's not him. It's Benji.

 

“Can you hear me?”

 

He's pretty sure he can.

 

“I found a door.”

 

He tells his uncle he hates him and he never gets the chance to take it back. Pain. Pain and blood. He can never take it back.

 

“Peter.”

 

“Mmm?”

 

“Did you hear me?”

 

He swallows excess spit and tries not to cough. “Huh? Uh, yeah. Um. Door.”

 

“Right. You see that hallway?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“It's the third left.”

 

“Third left.”

 

“I don't know what's outside, but I saw people come in through it. It's going to be our best option. If Mr. Stark can't get the tracker activated, we can try to escape through it.”

 

Peter's eyebrows crinkle. He smells copper. He can't feel his toes. “What happened to your accent?”

 

“What?” Benji touches his forehead. “You're burning up. Listen, they left to get Mr. Stark. They're going to free you when they come back. You have to remember where the door is, okay?”

 

Footsteps echo from far away. Thirteen paces. Third left. The last important thing he said to his uncle was that he hated him. He smashes his lips together.

 

The door. The door. Blood and pain and pain. Third left.

 

He blinks and Benji is gone.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

iii.

 

 

 

This is not the large room they were taken to before, but when they finally pull the sack off Tony's head, he still sees windows. He sees windows and he sees Peter on the floor in front of a column, head tilted back, blotches of red and pink decorating his skin. The Terminator pushes a key into Tony's palm.

 

“Release him,” he says.

 

Tony folds his grip over it. His hand shakes. “What's the catch?”

 

“The catch,” The Terminator says, “is that you are freeing him from the torture you caused him. The catch is you must see the consequences as what they are. Now move, Mr. Tony Stark, or we will find another way to make you regret not listening.”

 

Tony bites back a retort and crosses the distance between them. This room is bigger, full of pillars and open space. An old museum, maybe, or some kind of church. High ceilings and cracked, marble floors. He kneels beside Peter.

 

“You all right?”

 

Of course he's not. Peter's entire eye is black, just a mass of broken capillaries. When his lips part, blood trickles down his chin.

 

“There's a door,” he whispers.

 

“What?”

 

“Benji found a door outside.”

 

Tony shoots a glance at The Terminator and fumbles with Peter's restraints. “Where?”

 

“Um, nine o'clock.”

 

He eyes the hallway.

 

“Third right,” Peter says quietly. “No. No. Uh. Wait. Left. It's left.”

 

“Where did Benji go?” The key finds its place in the lock and settles. Tony twists it and the cuffs pop open.

 

“I … what?”

 

Not good. Not really. Peter's pupils are blown and won't focus on anything for more than a few seconds. “Yeah, okay, we'll deal with that later. Can you stand?”

 

“Huh?”

 

They are taking too long. The Terminator motions to one of his men and then there are hands pulling Tony up, pulling Peter up, and shoving bags over their heads. Tony doesn't know why they are yelling or what they are saying, but underneath it all he can hear Peter mumbling to someone. He tracks their steps. Counts every pace until they are back in the cell.

 

“We will get you what you need,” The Terminator says, arms crossed, watching as his men lead them inside. “And hopefully now you will take this seriously.”

 

He means now that Peter is hurt again. He means now that they've figured out what his weakness is.

 

Tony purses his lips. In the corner, Benji is standing against the wall. No sound. No movement. He's just there.

 

“For  _his_ sake, Mr. Tony Stark,” The Terminator says.

 

Peter sways unsteadily.

 

Tony says, “I can read between the lines just fine.”

 

“I know you can.”

 

The door closes behind him, and then, not even a beat after everyone has gone, Peter collapses. Silently and without warning, just drops straight to the ground. By the time Tony and Benji make it to either side of him, he's propping himself up on his elbows.

 

“Whoa,” he mutters.

 

“Jesus Christ,” Tony says. “Are you okay?”

 

“Uh. Yeah. I think so. I … yeah.”

 

They get him to his feet, help him over to the bed. Benji says, “His fever is high,” and Peter hits the lock on the suit and lets it fall off his shoulders, his thoughts in one place.

 

“'m okay.”

 

Mountains of bruises, a landscape of colors taking place on nearly every inch of the skin Tony couldn't see before. Peter is not Peter, he's a mess of cuts and welts and damaged bits. Every single one of them Tony's fault. 

 

Benji hands him a blanket. Tony hands him another one for good measure. Without the heater, and in just his boxers, he shivers almost violently.

 

“Hang tight,” Tony says. “I'll try to be fast.”

 

“N-no r-rush,” Peter says.

 

He's out before Tony makes it to the workbench.

 

 

 

 

With practiced expertise, Tony peels and folds and dismembers the suit. It's too dark to see details now without the lamps, so Benji puts batteries back inside a flashlight and angles it for him so he can unscrew the top casing.

 

“How the hell did you get back in here?” Tony asks.

 

“I came in while they were bringing you two back,” says Benji. “I wasn't sure I'd be able to. No one noticed.”

 

“Yeah, you're lucky about that. What's our situation with the front door? We got any kind of doorbell gonna go off?”

 

“There was no sign of an alarm that I could see.”

 

Tony pinches the tracker between his nails and carefully lifts it. “What about guards?”

 

“One on the inside. There could be more outside, but I didn't see any when the door was open.”

 

Copper touching copper. The conductors. The currents. He connects one end to the tracker. He reaches for another and glances at Benji.

 

“Why do you sound different?”

 

“I know why I'm here now, Tony.”

 

“Yeah?” He sends another current through, his attention focused on the faint light emitting from the device. He is distracted. By his plan, by the blood on his fingers, by the congested sounds the kid is making from the cot like his sinuses have turned to liquid. “Why's that?”

 

“To save you two.”

 

A spark. The cord to the tracker glows blue, life and recognition after being off for so long, empty and hollowed out like Tony's chest used to be.  _So you're a man who has everything and nothing._

 

No, but no, the inner shell of the system flashes as the sub-divisions acknowledge the action, and this is it, this is what he wanted, what Peter wanted, what they needed.

 

He's done it.

 

“Did it work?”

 

“Think so,” he says.

 

"How long will it take?"

 

“Don't know. Lots of different factors at play here.” Like where they are, and how far away they are from the compound, from New York, from the people who are looking for them. The tracker should alert FRIDAY if it works like he wants it to and FRIDAY will alert Pepper or Happy or any number of his team members who will be trying to use his technology to find him.

 

Copper and currents and conductors. 

 

There's the metallic smell of iron, and how much of the blood on his shirt is actually his own?

 

There's the smell of propane smothered along the cot he sleeps in, and a half-assed plan buried somewhere in the fried end of a blanket.

 

“They'll want Peter when they come back,” Benji says. “He scares them, but he fascinates them too.”

 

Tony knows. And what's worse is Tony knows if they take Peter again, he won't come back whole. So fading accent and disappearing act aside, Tony tells Benji his idea, which has been the same since the beginning, but bigger now, more encompassing. A distraction of multitudes. A half-assed plan buried in the fried end of a blanket and the chemical smell of propane soaking his cot.

 

“I don't know what's on the other side of the door,” Benji says.

 

But Tony knows what's on the inside and he's almost sure it's worse.

 

Turn left. Thirteen steps. Down the hallway. Third left.

 

“You ever shoot a gun before?” Tony asks.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good. Cause you're gonna shoot one again.”

 

Let Peter sleep a while longer and get him back in the suit, give him water that is not dosed, give him the rest of the food.  _Try to walk around for a second. Get your muscles used to moving._ Peter stumbles but doesn't fall. Peter can't feel his toes, can't feel the ends of his fingers. But Peter is strong-willed and stubborn and a clutter of colors he shouldn't be. But Peter can hear and he can walk and when it comes down it, injuries or no injuries, he'll fight just like he always does.

 

"They ... they wanted to know my name," he says. 

 

"What?"

 

When it comes down to it, and the men come back, and they  _do_  come back, carrying old tech and new tech and a variety of transmitters and an evil glow in their eye as they get ready to take Peter again to encourage Tony to do what they want, Tony won't go down easy.

 

According to Benji, they already knew Peter's name. That's how he knew it too.

 

Click, click, click.

 

Confusion and lies aside, Tony's time is up. If the tracker worked, if it didn't work, his time is up. He's not letting them take the kid again.

 

The locks on the door start to come undone.

 

_Don't waste your life, Stark._

 

He won't.

 

“Ready?”

 

“Ready.”

 

There's the smell of propane soaking the cot he sleeps in and the smell of copper and a door down a hallway leading to a world with an endless list of probabilities on the other side.

 

The last lock comes undone.

 

His time is up. He tips the lantern in his hand and sets his mattress on fire.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this story has been a fun way for me to experiment with different writing styles. I really like this chapter, which is probably why it's so long, haha. sorry about that.
> 
> thanks for being so compassionate about my first-world problem of not meeting Chris Evans. you guys are the best. and, as always, thanks for all the love on this story! I finally set an end chapter number, so just be aware of that :)


	6. Chapter 6

 

i.

 

 

It happens like this: the door opens, the men flood, someone shouts, and then another shout follows, and the flames stretch up toward the ceiling. Four men this time, no Terminator, and while they are distracted by the fire, Tony uses the biggest flashlight in their possession to hit one upside the head. A solid connection. A snapping crunch. He snatches the gun right as three barrels turn on him.

 

“Drop it, drop it!” the men yell, in English, in whatever language Tony can now understand. One of them makes a move toward Peter, but the kid is prepared. He dives out of reach.

 

Edge away. Carefully, one inch at a time.

 

“Okay,” Tony says, holding up a hand in surrender. “Okay, why don't we talk this out? Let's make some tea. You can braid each other's hair.”

 

“Drop it or we shoot!”

 

“Nice talk,” he says, and leans down, deliberately, slowly, as if to lower the gun. From the corner of his eye, he sees a spark. “Benji, now!”

 

Benji makes the final connections. Alkaline. Currents. Electricity. He has dragged their makeshift bomb behind the men while they weren't looking, as far as the extension cords would let it go, and right before it can go off, Tony pushes Peter out the door.

 

Boom.

 

Send enough currents and short circuit the batteries and tinker around with conductors and copper and the explosion is big enough to propel vibrations through the floor. Fire adding to fire. Tony looks back only to make sure Benji has made it out before the detonation. He has.

 

“Stay behind me,” Tony tells Peter.

 

Fifteen steps, turn right. Around the corner they are met by another man and Tony doesn't even think about it, doesn't even blink, just takes aims and fires. He scoops up the rifle after the guy goes down and tosses it to Benji.

 

“Shouldn't Peter have this?”

 

Tony looks at him. “You ever shoot a gun, kid?”

 

Peter shakes his head.

 

“Then today's not gonna be the first.”

 

What happens here doesn't happen in words, but it doesn't need to. Tony has caused Peter enough trauma to last a lifetime. Torture and anxiety and kidnapping. You don't come back from that the same. And the first time you shoot someone, the first time you purposely aim a gun at someone for the reason of hurting them, you're never whole again.

 

Fourteen stairs.

 

While he can still save Peter, he will.

 

Twenty steps, turn left. A bang. Benji shoots and misses. Tony shoots and doesn't.

 

He's not trying to kill anyone, just incapacitate them. Pepper told him once there are religions that believe whenever you kill another human it splits the soul. _You're thinking of Harry Potter_ , he'd said, but she'd insisted it was different, that once the soul was split it was nearly impossible to put back together. There are rituals and old folktales about how to connect each bit again, she'd explained, and Tony had looked it up and never found any of them.

 

If every person he's killed has split his soul, he's sure there's nothing left.

 

Hands land on Peter. He elbows the person they belong to, spins and hits them in the face. The blow is hard enough to knock them out.

 

“Impressive,” Tony says. “And a little scary.”

 

But this is the Peter he needs right now. Adrenaline pushing through sedatives, pushing through the fatigue and pain that will have the kid crumpling to the ground once it's gone. He needs Peter to be able to see and hear. He needs Peter to be able to fight.

 

“Let's go, Mike Tyson.”

 

Twenty-five steps down a hallway. Turn left. Another thirteen steps. They are back in the open room. Cracked marble and pillars and windows. It is dark out, which doesn't mean much in time during the winter. It could be six at night. It could be one in the morning. Maybe that's why it's so quiet.

 

Maybe that's why this is too easy.

 

“Something's not right,” Peter whispers. “Where is everyone?”

 

Where is The Terminator?

 

“Never count your money when you're sitting at the table, kid,” Tony says. “Life lesson. Be on alert.”

 

Their footsteps echo. Every breath sounds like a shot in Tony's ears.

 

“It's over here,” Benji says, leading the way across the space with the confidence of someone who believes everything has gone so wrong in their life that nothing else can happen to them now.

 

“Jesus. Keep your voice down. You wanna get shot?”

 

“It won't matter,” Benji says. “I'm already dead.”

 

Third left. There's the door. Tall and narrow and welcoming, threatening, holding every hope and fear and possibility. What's on the other side?

 

Peter grabs Tony's wrist. “Mr. Stark, wait.”

 

“What's wrong?”

 

“There are people out there,” he says. “Like … a lot of people. I can hear them.”

 

Out on the other side where all Tony's plans have been pulverized. He holds his breath and he can hear them too.

 

“Okay. New plan.”

 

“Another door?” Peter asks.

 

“Best bet. Or find a window we can fit through,” Tony says, but out on the other side, the voices get louder, and the door makes a sound like it's being opened, and then it _is_ being opened, and there's no possible way to make a break for it because the hallway is too long and they'll never make it to the end before they're seen.

 

Before he can decide what to do, before a complete thought even forms in his head, a small tube rolls in. The words _Stark Industries_ flash up at him.

 

“Shit.”

 

A smoke grenade. It starts to explode from the tube, a cloud of white expanding and blowing out. Tony's eyes burn. His lungs sting. He coughs and yells, “Don't shoot! It's me. It's me!”

 

From somewhere in the midst of the smog, a familiar voice says, “Tony?”

 

Last year, Tony invented a version of the grenade that utilized a different toxin in the gas. It had been a special request from Rhodey, who found that a lot of the men in his division, including himself, were breaking out in hives during test runs of its use.

 

This is how Tony knows.

 

“Rhodey?”

 

The smoke is too thick to see through. Peter chokes and wheezes. Someone shouts something and it's not in English.

 

“Get down!” Rhodey commands.

 

Gunshots ring through the air. Tony drops down and covers his head. To his left, he can barely make out the outline of Peter.

 

Split the soul into enough pieces and they never come back together. Rituals and Horcruxes and tales told around campfires. Killers are killers and the universe doesn't care why they do it. Save all the people you want. It's the ones you don't save that everyone remembers.

 

To his left, Peter is still standing.

 

Because to his left, Peter's hearing has gone out again.

 

And the guns fire and the smoke swells and Tony thinks, this is it, he's about to split his soul again and there will be nothing left to put back together.

 

The last thing he sees is a ball rolling across the floor. This one doesn't have his name on it, but he knows what it is all the same.

 

A bomb. Not the makeshift kind. It heads straight toward Peter, and Tony stands, as if to get to it before it can go off, but Benji, who was nowhere until now, who has never been anywhere until now, beats him there and shoves Peter as far away as he can.

 

But is it enough?

 

The universe doesn't care about promises or excuses or why you do the things you do.

 

It never has.

 

It never will.

 

 

Boom.

 

* * *

 

 

ii.

 

 

Peter's world explodes into a burst of colors.

 

Pain and blood and pain.

 

He tells Ben he hates him and he never gets to take it back.

 

Burn the toast, sing the song, hold the kite so the wind can't take it from your grasp. Queens, New Jersey, a cell. Listen to see if you still can. Look around to see if you still can. 

 

He closes his eyes and Ben says, _Peter, I forgive you._

 

He closes his eyes and Ben says, _I never blamed you._

 

The mashed potato, the sprinkler. 

 

Is anyone still looking?

 

Or are you already dead?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have I completely doomed this chapter by uploading it on a Wednesday? a _wednesday_. ughh. what am I doing?
> 
> but feel free to prove me wrong? ;)


	7. Chapter 7

 

i.

 

 

He doesn't know how it happens. There are flashes of things that don't make sense, seconds separated by hazy, dreamy chunks of time, and then he's in a jet, or a big helicopter, and someone is shining a light into his pupils.

 

The bomb. The explosion. The kid.

 

The _kid_.

 

“What – where –”

 

“Tony,” Rhodey says. “How do we get the suit off?”

 

Tony rolls his head to the side and sees Peter. Peter covered in blood and ash, on a gurney, three strangers surrounding him. He's not moving.

 

“The suit, Tones. How do we get it off him?”

 

Tony's lungs burn. He taps on his sternum.

 

“Your chest?” Rhodey asks. “Let me –”

 

“No,” Tony chokes out. “The spider … on his chest. Unlocks suit.”

 

 _Is Peter dead_? His mouth won't say the words. _Is he dying? Rhodey is he dying?_

 

The bomb. The explosion.

 

The jet tilts forward and Tony's vision whites out.

 

 

 

He sees Pepper – her smile, her blue eyes, the fine lines around her lips. She dances with him in a backless blue dress in the middle of all their co-workers. On the roof, under the glow of a hundred city lights, they almost kiss, but they don't, and Tony knows in that moment he loves her, but it's not the first time he's known. He's known it for a long time, but his life is a mess, and he's a mess, and he can't tell her what he wants to say.

 

The gates of the sky peel open. There is the missile and there is space and he is making them one thing. Save the city, save the Avengers. He uses every ounce of power in the suit to propel him toward the hole in the atmosphere. He calls Pepper and she doesn't answer. It's the last thing he sees. Green grass and warm summer nights and missed calls. Pepper's picture staring back at him as the systems shut down. As his body shuts down.

 

And he falls.

 

Later, Pepper falls too, her hand inches away from his, and he promised he would catch her but he didn't. She falls into the fire below. Falls and falls and falls.

 

And then Rhodey falls. The hit to his chest wipes out the reactor and he tumbles through the sky and Tony dives for him, Sam dives for him, but Rhodey is falling too fast. Tony pushes thrusters and gives it all he has and it's not enough. Feet away from him and Rhodey slams into the ground.

 

Boom.

 

Before that, while it is still friendly fire, the kid falls too. Knocked through the air by a giant hand and Tony knows Peter is strong, stronger than a normal fifteen-year-old, but he doesn't know exactly how strong and a blow like that should kill a person. Falling and falling and then he's lying on the tarmac, too still, much too still, and Tony is almost sure he's dead.

 

Boom.

 

The sky opening up and the toe of a shoe slamming into his ribs and Peter begging for it to stop. _Please_ , he says. _Please. Please._ As if everything up until this moment was tolerable, but not this.

 

Falling and falling and falling.

 

They all hit the ground.

 

 

 

He opens his eyes and he can't breathe. Someone touches his shoulder.

 

“Take it easy, Tones. Relax.”

 

There are lights above him, a foreign room around him.

 

“The kid,” he says. “Where's the kid?”

 

“He's upstairs,” Rhodey says. “We got him. You're both safe.”

 

“Is he ...” Peter falling, Peter soaked with water, soaked with blood, hitting the ground, drowning, falling and falling.

 

“Alive? Yeah, he is.”

 

Tony's eyes land on Rhodey. On his face, on his arms, his leg braces. He can't remember what happened, but he knows it wasn't good.

 

He looks down at himself. He's not dressed in a hospital gown, but these clothes aren't his own. A light blue shirt and gray sweatpants. Is he hollowed out? No, there's just a bunch of bandages wrapped around his torso.

 

“You've got a couple cracked ribs,” Rhodey says. “And a concussion.”

 

“Right.” Tony sits up painfully and flings his legs over the side of the bed. His bracelet is back on. His armor is just a button away. “Where are we?”

 

“UCSF med center.”

 

“Where _were_ we?”

 

“Just outside Nogales.”

 

“Nogales, _Mexico_? How the hell did we get to Mexico?”

 

“You were alive in the '80s, Tones. I don't think I need to explain the power of drugs. And air travel.”

 

"Those guys have a jet?"

 

"Yup. Knocked you both out on the way there."

 

“Okay. Yeah.” The bomb. The explosion. Everything is still piecing together, trying to find a place in his brain. Peter was standing. The guns fired. The bomb rolled at him. “How's the kid?”

 

“He's holding up,” Rhodey says. “They've got him in the ICU. His fever was pretty high and there are a lot of narcotics in his system so they need to keep watch of him while they filter out. None of his wounds are life threatening though. Some shrapnel injuries and whatever else was done to him before that. Main concern is he can't hear anything. They think the explosion might have blown out his eardrums.”

 

He should be dead, shouldn't he? Split Tony's soul so it never comes back together. He can already feel where it has ripped.

 

“Take me up to the ICU.”

 

“Tony, you need to –”

 

“What I _need_ is security details. Guards outside his room. I need specialized members working on him. Kid has enhanced abilities and a secret identity. I need – shit, where is his suit?”

 

“I've got it with me.” Rhodey lifts a bag to show him the suit folded inside. “And I've taken care of everything. Everyone is on your team.”

 

“Are you trying to give me a pep talk right now? Because I'm not in the mood.”

 

“I mean everyone is on your _team_. They're all Stark employees. The nurses working on the kid right now are some of Helen Cho's people. Guards outside are all yours. I called in extra security. Everything is taken care of. Relax.”

 

Tony breathes out through his mouth, in through his nose. “Okay,” he says. “Take me up to the kid. Actually, get me real clothes first, because these are disgusting, and then take me to him.”

 

Rhodey just shakes his head.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Up on the thirteenth floor, the guards at the entrance greet Tony and let them in. More guards are stationed outside the glass door of Peter's room and when they clear the way, when they step aside to give them access, Tony gets his first full-on view of the kid since their rescue. Swollen eyes, bruises and cuts on his face, his neck, his arms. He's hooked up to three different monitors, tubes running to the crook of his arm, a mask over his face and nose. 

 

And there, sitting on the edge of his bed near his knees, a familiar figure.

 

Tony says, “Hey, Blondie. Comeback tour run dry?” and Natasha turns and smiles at him.

 

“Figured I could miss a few shows for two of my favorite groupies.”

 

“Groupies. Harsh. Thought I was your biggest fan.”

 

“Think Fury's got you beat.”

 

Tony smirks, relief easing tension. Someone has been here watching over the kid for him.

 

“You okay?” Natasha asks.

 

“I will be,” Tony says. “How about him? Has he woken up?”

 

“He's been in and out. Mostly out. They said all the drugs in his system will probably have him sleeping for a while.”

 

Peter couldn't hear the command to get down. The guns fired. The bomb exploded. Tony's soul split again. Peter should be dead.

 

No, but no, he is alive. Hurt and damaged, but alive.

 

“What the hell happened?”

 

What happened is this: War Machine – “Iron Patriot,” Rhodey corrects himself with a scowl – and Natasha and a team of soldiers traced the signal sent from Peter's suit. Jet engines starting, plans made on the way. They'd been following a lead in the same direction and it was all straight forward for there. Arrive at night and take the men outside by surprise and eliminate that threat before moving inward.

 

And then the bomb rolled in. And Rhodey can't explain this, has to stop for a minute to figure out what to say.

 

“It was like something muted the entire explosion. I was able to block you in the armor, but the discharge didn't go far. Kid got the tail end of it. We think the bomb malfunctioned or something. We can't explain it.”

 

No, not malfunctioned. It's like someone jumped on it. Like someone sacrificed themselves, split Tony's soul into its last pieces. Ripped and tore and shattered everything he has left.

 

He remembers now what he's forgotten.

 

“Shit. Where's Benji?”

 

“Who's Benji?”

 

“He was the other guy being held captive with us. He ...” He sacrificed himself, blew himself to pieces.

 

Rhodey shares a look with Natasha.

 

“Tony,” he says, carefully, cautiously, like Tony is another bomb that might go off at any second. “There was no one else in there with you.”

 

The words pass through Tony without meaning. “What?”

 

“Maybe you should sit down.”

 

“Don't condescend me. I'm fine. What do you mean there was no one else?”

 

“I had one of my guys check out the security footage. The people who took you had a camera angled at the outside of the cell door. You and the kid were the only prisoners who ever came in and out of there.”

 

But Benji was there. Benji, who translated for him, who helped him take care of the kid, who dismembered lights and connected copper and found the door and talked to him, talked _with_ him, had real conversations.

 

_"I know why I'm here now, Tony."_

 

_"Yeah? Why's that?"_

 

 _"To save you two_."

 

His brain connects the missing pieces.

 

Benji never slept, never even had a cot set up for himself. 

 

Benji never ate. The food came in piles of two, for Tony and Peter. Benji never touched any of it, because there was never any of it there for him.

 

He didn't raise his hands when the guns came. No one ever looked at him. No one ever acknowledged him.

 

Fading accent and disappearing acts and shady behavior.

 

_"Do you wanna get shot?"_

 

_"It doesn't matter. I'm already dead."_

 

Benji never existed at all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They think it was the narcotics. The doctors found traces of them in Tony too, and Rhodey offers up the idea of shared hallucinations, a way for his brain to cope with the trauma of being captured, to have someone to talk to while the kid was out.

 

Tony has seen a lot of weird things in his time. Aliens, gods, other worlds. But he can't get over this. Benji moved things. Benji knew things they didn't know. The door. The lamps. The makeshift bomb as a distraction. There's no way Benji could have not existed.

 

Except, he didn't. While Peter sleeps, Tony searches through the footage himself. The last time he and Peter leave the cell, no one comes out after them. There's no Benji escaping before Peter is taken. No Benji sneaking back in after Tony is brought out to release him. Tony backtracks in time until the moment the camera is set up. No Benji. No Benji. No Benji.

 

“Ms'r Stark?”

 

He glances up at the sound of the croaky voice. Peter is awake, eyes open in narrow slits, hand reaching for the oxygen mask.

 

“Hey, kid. You should probably leave that on.”

 

He takes it off anyway.

 

“Or not.” Tony moves to his bed. “Can you hear me?”

 

“Yeah,” Peter whispers. “Kinda.”

 

“That ear still giving you trouble?”

 

A nod. Peter's gaze darts around the room, trails over all the monitors and equipment. “Where're we?”

 

“We, dear spider child, are in a hospital in the beautiful San Francisco.”

 

Peter swallows audibly. “California?”

 

“The one and only. A doctor friend has team members here who have experience with super-powered beings like yourself. We were down at the border and they couldn't charter us all the way back to New York for medical reasons, so here we are.”

 

In the couple hours since Tony stationed himself in the blue chair in Peter's room, the older bruises on his face have started to fade, the scrapes and welts losing intensity, leaving behind pale skin. His fever has spiked, dropped, spiked, and settled in a place a little too high but not dangerous.

 

And Tony still sees him falling. Still sees him collapsing, covered in blood, in water, shivering, fighting, begging for them to stop hurting his mentor. _Please please please_.

 

Right now, Natasha, Rhodey, Everett Ross, and CIA agents are interrogating the men who took them. Have them held in custody with no chance of escape. “If they know about the stones and went through this much trouble to try to find them, that means this is bigger than we thought it was,” Natasha said. “A lot bigger.”

 

Infinite power. The end of everything. He knows.

 

Peter coughs and winces. “Did–”

 

 _Did Benji die?_ This is the question Tony expects and doesn't know how to answer. This is the question he doesn't even know how to explain to himself. He can chalk things up to excuses. He knew the language the guys were speaking the entire time, just didn't process it. When Benji translated, it could have just been Tony's brain helping him out. The door? Peter could have been dragged by it at one point and forgot and Benji was his mind reminding him. Maybe Tony moved the makeshift bomb before the men came in. Maybe everything was really coming from Tony and Peter themselves.

 

But what about the real bomb? The one that rolled to the kid's feet. Rolled right at him when he couldn't hear. The guns fired, the smoke rose. Benji pushed Peter out of the way. Benji saved Peter's life. There's no way to explain it.

 

“Did someone call May?”

 

Tony's insides twist. This he can handle. “Yeah. She and Happy are on their way. Pepper too, I think. They should all be on a jet by now.”

 

Peter nods and closes his eyes. He doesn't ask about Benji, and Tony thinks, in this silence, in this lack of curiosity, that Peter already knows. That Peter knew long before he did.

 

Naive and stupid and hollowed out. Maybe Tony is the only one who doesn't know anything at all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

ii.

 

 

It's the sudden rise and fall of noise that bothers Peter the most. When it's there, it's good, but then it's gone and it fills his insides, spreads through his bones. Silence. Pain. Emptiness. He drifts in and out. His ears ring. The monitors beep, fade, beep.

 

He wakes and his nose is bleeding. He wakes and he can't hear anything again. There are foreign faces over him, hands grabbing his arms and pulling him into a sitting position because he's choking, he's drowning, he can't breathe. Tony steps into his line of vision. He holds up a pencil, snaps it in half. Peter hears it.

 

“Yeah?” Tony says.

 

“Y-yeah,” Peter says.

 

“All right, you're good. See? Everything is fine. So take a breath. Don't panic on me. You're okay.”

 

They get the bleeding stopped. He breathes again, doesn't drown, doesn't choke. 

 

And then May is there. He remembers her singing in the kitchen, he remembers her dancing with Ben. The sprinkler, the mashed potato. She's not tone deaf, just doesn't like commitment, doesn't want the other notes to feel bad.

 

She hugs him and she cries and Peter wants to tell her it's okay, Ben forgave him, Ben isn't mad, Ben still loves him. He saved him. They saved each other, in the end. He's alive.

 

But when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out.

 

 _It's not good to look for the dead_.

 

The barrel of a gun pressed to his temple and tears and water rolling down his cheeks.

 

May says, “It's okay. It's okay now.”

 

He lost his parents so fast he never got the chance to mourn. When he lost Ben, he mourned for all of them.

 

_Peter, I forgive you._

 

Burn the toast, sing the song, hold the kite so the wind can't take it from your grasp. Queens, New Jersey, a hospital. Tony and Natasha and Rhodey and May here, watching over him, keeping him safe. 

 

_I never blamed you._

 

He can be all right now.

 

He  _will_ be all right now.

 

 

 

* * *

 

iii.

 

 

Relief looks a lot like this: Peter curled on his side, sound asleep, his fever broken, the drugs filtered through his system. He's in a regular room and Tony and May are occupying the chair and couch inside and there is silence, this nice kind of silence, this hopeful kind. Pepper hugs him and says, "What did I tell you about getting abducted?" and Jesus he loves her so much. He makes sure she knows. He makes sure she'll never forget. Happy claps his shoulder and says, "Glad to see you. Don't ever do that again."

 

There are still a dozen answers Tony wants. There are still a million things that don't make sense. And he knows not all of them ever will. When it comes down to it, this wasn't about him. This was about so, so much more. The universe. The stars. Everything that glimmers and promises hope. It is the fire growing beneath them, around them, inching closer and closer every day.

 

The Terminator tells Everett Ross he was working for someone from space. The promise of salvation for him and his team. No specifics. No names. It was a plan executed in a subtle enough way it didn't attract the attention of Stephen Strange. They believe Tony knows where the stones are but none of the men will tell them why. None of them will tell them anything else.

 

All anyone knows is something big is coming. Something like Thanos. Something like Tony. Something like the end of everything.

 

But Peter is safe. Peter is safe, for now, and will heal and they will fix anything that's broken. They will fix his ear, fix his hearing, fix his wounds. 

 

Benji, whoever he is, whatever he _was_ , sacrificed himself for Peter when they were in that prison. And Tony might not be able to explain it, might not ever be able to figure out how it happened, but it did. Benji saved Peter while they were in there. It's up to Tony to save him now that they are out.

 

The planets. The stars. The moons. The galaxies. Total destruction. Annihilation.  _Life_.

 

Peter blinks open his eyes and looks at him.  

 

_Don't waste your life, Stark._

 

He won't.

 

Not anymore.

 

Not ever again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapters make me soooo nervous. like, is it good enough? did I say everything I wanted to say? ahhhh
> 
> anyway, thanks so much for all the love you guys have shown this story! it really means a lot to me. I hope the ending was not disappointing! thanks again <3 <3 <3


End file.
